


Attaching memory file time code

by Cameron_McKell



Series: Antivirus and Related Works [2]
Category: Tron - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cameron_McKell/pseuds/Cameron_McKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of memories from the long runtime of Tron. Companion pieces/filler to complement Antivirus (WT).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. plus 253.68696 cycles

“... What is this?”

 

There was a a rather large bag held by a long strap in one of Tron's hands. At least, he assumed it was a bag; its shape, zippered pockets, and the presence and attachment of the long strap were all similar to an item positively identified as 'a bag' which Flynn had brought with him to the Grid on several occasions, despite the unfamiliarity of this new item's particular shape, color, or construction material. It rustled as he moved to offer it back to the amused User, and Tron was momentarily sidetracked from completing the motion by compensatory calculations in regards to the odd shift of weight from within. This led into a string of several other calculations, one of which was a perhaps misguided attempt to estimate the item's contents, considering his still very limited database of knowledge about items from the User world.

 

Flynn chuckled for a moment at the baffled, but typically intense scrutiny with which his friend regarded the object, “It's a diaper bag.”

 

“A diaper bag?... A specialized bag, then, made of diaper?” Tron attempted to integrate this newly gained knowledge into his previous assessment, assuming 'diaper' was the proper name of the slick, noisy, light green material. There were several shapes arranged with intent on the bag's surface: a yellow circle and crescent, a small black circle off-center within the yellow circle, near the base of an orange triangle, with another triangle pointing in the opposite direction arranged by the outer edge of the crescent; perhaps they were also made of diaper?

 

Kevin Flynn laughed helplessly for a full two minutes.

 

Eventually, he managed to wheeze out an explanation, “It's meant to _hold_ diapers, it isn't _made_ from them. Oh, man...”

 

Tron just stared at him, visual cues of confusion traded for a moment for a look that almost spelled out in text format what he thought of the User's mental faculties.

 

The User burst out laughing again.

 

While Flynn was still getting a grip on himself, Tron decided to do some individual investigation into what, exactly, a diaper is. Already familiar with the mechanics of the bag's closure from a previous instance of information exchange 114.2289 cycles previously, he carefully gripped the zipper pull between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled.

 

He did not find what he expected.

 

He _knew_ what these were.

 

He picked up one of the several books within the bag; it was thicker and larger than previous books he'd encountered, but the presence of a spine, cover, and pages were already tagged as criteria for a book, along with a secondary note that color, texture, and size can vary widely. He showed the book to the User, expression wavering between frustrated confusion, and self-doubt.

 

“This is a book. I already know _this_ , you've shown me on several occasions. Is it, also, somehow, a diaper? If so, could you explain the criteria for a diaper? I... don't understand.”

 

Seeing the traces of upset beginning to form in Tron's posture, and knowing just how badly it bothered the program to admit any form of defeat, even if it was a simple inability to understand an unimportant fact, the User took pity on him.

 

“You're right, Tron; that's a book. A diaper is... underwear worn by really _young_ Users, or I guess really _old_ ones, that can't control... uh, their body's... waste disposal... functions,” he paused to run a hand through his hair. If he didn't know better, he would almost say Tron had staged this, to get revenge for laughing at him. “You remember the talk we had about User energy consumption, right? What am I saying – I've seen your memory files, of _course_ you do. It's not as, ah, _efficient_ as program energy consumption, so there's some waste byproducts. A diaper collects any accidental attempts to dispose of that... waste, so they can be, um, contained, and properly disposed of, without causing a lot of pain or... discomfort.” The User finished with a gusty sigh, hoping that he'd explained everything in a way the program could understand.

 

Tron watched him thoughtfully for a moment, before eventually asking, “If the bag is intended to facilitate the transportation of diapers, why are there books inside it, instead?”

 

Flynn shrugged casually, “I needed to carry the books, but I didn't have anything else handy at the time, so I just used what I had. Sorry, man, it wasn't supposed to mean anything; I've just been meaning to show you these books for a while. That's all.”

 

Tron nodded absently at this explanation, making a note to ask what 'handy' meant, the next time it came up in conversation. For now, though...

 

“I have more questions.”

 

“Okay, shoot, “ Flynn shrugged, then elaborated after the brief startled look he got for the comment. “I mean, _go_ _ahead.”_ The program's composure returned as he filed the new explanation away.

 

“Given your thorough knowledge of diapers, are you one of the Users that must wear a diaper? May I see it, so that I can add a visual description to my information criteria? What is the nature of the discomfort or pain caused by these accidental waste disposal attempts? I have never experienced something like what you are referring to; is there any way I can help? May I wa-”

 

The program stopped speaking abruptly, perplexed by Flynn's hands held tightly over his mouth.

 

“Just- just _stop talking_ for a second, okay?” The User's face had changed colors rather drastically as Tron spoke, at first almost as pale as a program, before suddenly shifting rather heavily into the red spectrum. He waited, obediently silent.

 

Eventually, Flynn removed his hands.

 

“Man, if I didn't know better I'd say you were doing this on _purpose_. I don't wear a diaper, but Sam does; he's still too young to control that sort of thing completely. He's learning, though.” Parental pride distracted Flynn for a moment, but not for long, unfortunately for him. Tron was still watching him expectantly, but quietly. “As for your... other questions, I think they'll have to wait for another day.”

 

Tron just looked at him, still silent.

 

It took an uncomfortably silent, long time for Kevin Flynn to realize that he'd asked the program to be silent for a 'second'. Not a picocycle, or microcycle, or some other Grid-based unit of time, but one based in the User world.

 

A second out there was almost seventeen _minutes_ in the Grid.

 

… He needed a break, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Flynn had almost forgotten Tron waiting out the second of silence, absently manipulating the local coding, when the program's internal chronometer clicked over.

 

“-tch? Doing what? Perhaps wh- … if, you bring Sam to visit? All right, then.” Tron smoothly caught up his queue of replies, Flynn jolting away from the interface he'd been working at, somehow expressing disturbed amusement at his friend.

 

“Tron, you're something else, sometimes.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nevermind.” Flynn laughed.

 

Tron watched him bemusedly for a moment, before gesturing slightly with the book in his hand. “You said you've been meaning to show me these for a while?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Flynn remembered himself, gesturing to the book. “You're always asking about Sam – and don't try to argue with me about that, 'cause you _just barely_ did it – and when he can come to the Grid. He's a bit too young for that still, but I thought of the next best thing.” He gestured excitedly at the end, pantomiming opening the book. After translating the meaning behind the User's flailing, Tron opened the book.

 

Images, page after page of them.

 

Tron stared at the first six images in turn, saving them to his memory, before looking back up at the User. “A User image file?”

 

A proximity notice activated in one of his inputs, and a glance over Flynn's shoulder visually confirmed the gold lightcycle approaching the pair. Tron extended one of his most basic scans, greeting the approaching program with an acknowledgment of existence that somehow managed to contain a reflection of his happiness to see his friend, and excitement over something new to learn.

 

Flynn smiled at Tron, somewhat impressed by his reasoning out a fairly accurate explanation for the photo album. “You've got it, man. They're mostly pictures of Sam, but I stuffed a few others in there – I think they're vacation photos. I thought you'd get a kick out of them.” He shrugged, then finally noticed the gold lightcycle as it pulled to a stop a short distance from the two.

 

Clu's riding helmet retracted, and he spared the User and fellow program a tight, but genuine smile. The administrative program glanced at the diaper bag, then at the usually serious security program still holding it, and considered the scene. Amusement loosened his smile, his eyes never shifting from Tron examining the books as he spoke to the User.

 

“Welcome back, Flynn. I've compiled a list of upgrades to the system for you to approve. Three sectors sustained damage during your absence, as I'm sure Tron told you; they have been repaired. The site set aside for the Simulation Dockyards was found to be unsuitable, when an energy spring was unearthed during initial structural coding. I built an energy transfer station and club there, instead; it seemed inefficient to waste the resources. I'll have to show it to you; you'll have to write programs to run it if you like it.” Clu flicked his gaze over to Flynn at the mention of the Shipyards, but otherwise didn't comment on the sudden tension in Tron's now intently focused download of the photo album. Abruptly, he tossed a baton to the User, and nodded his head back toward the city proper, eyes almost spelling out the advisability of letting the security program have time to himself.

 

Flynn caught the baton, and stared at Clu for a long moment, some distant part of his brain registering the rather eloquent look his program was giving him, and which program he had probably learned it from. He glanced over at said program, then nodded, and pushed back any inquiries he would otherwise have made about a certain troubled female program, and rezzed in his lightcycle.

 

Tron processed but didn't register the User's farewell, but did manage another basic scan to acknowledge the two look-alikes' departure, faint reassurance tinting the contact only one of the two could feel, in response to the fond worry he'd identified in an administrative status update request.

 

Tron's tension, and the thoughts behind it, were slow to leave.

 

Eventually they did, though. It wasn't accompanied by a sigh or otherwise demonstrative gesture of returning ease, since there was no one around to see it, but each byte of distracting information made putting _that_ issue aside for later resolution all the easier.

 

He continued to flip through the pictures.

 

* * *

 

It took longer than Tron expected to save the images to his memory, but he had two theories as to what caused the time discrepancy. One was the time involved in carefully turning the pages; he couldn't scan the book like a regular file to determine its stability, so he was cautious about the data's integrity. The second was the occasional stall he experienced, staring perplexedly at this image or that, with neither Flynn nor Clu readily available to answer his queries. The system administrator's knowledge of the User world wasn't to the same level as Flynn's – it had been larger at his creation, but many pieces of information had been deleted or archived by the program himself to improve his available memory and streamline his processing for the high-level coding he performed regularly – but it was still rather expansive.

 

He'd found himself a slightly raised slab of rough data to sit on halfway through the book, and now used it to temporarily store the book, while he reached into the bag at his feet for the next.

 

There was something... attached, to the outer cover. It was colorful, and significantly smaller than the new photo album; It's length and width were roughly halved that of the album's, but it wasn't even a tenth as thick. He stared at the thing, tilting the album it was attached to slowly by degrees.

 

Just before ninety degrees, the outer cover of the – book? - swung out, and pulled the rest of the thing downward to freedom with the almost-ripping sound of adhesion giving way, no longer able to bear the shifted strain put upon it.

 

Tron set the photo album aside for now, and stared at the small, colorfulbook in his lap.

 

The front cover was an image of a short – their outward appearance registered several indicators of an interface registered as 'female' by Users, with the exception of one pertaining to torso contours – with blonde, very curly hair, and protective coverings that looked more like User clothes than the Gridsuits typical of programs. The female User's pants – or perhaps they were a variant – were particularly bizarre; they were made from an excessive amount of extra material, enough that the material creased and folded, and flared _away_ from her body, and bypassed any connective 'seams' between her legs in favor of connecting as one, oddly large, protective covering over both.

 

The little User was poised halfway through the threshold of a very small building with an angled roof, situated amongst several green and brown objects he eventually connected to items in the photos he'd been viewing, but didn't know the name or function of yet. A somewhat large portion of the cover image was corrupted with a thin layer of something dark and... _odd_ smelling. Tron paused to consider the resilience of his coding in regards to potentially a User virus, then determined that the dark something wasn't _spreading_ over the image, and one of his more sensitive, and more direct, sensors would offer up a clearer and more elaborate assessment of it.

 

He held the book up closer to his face...

 

...and licked it.

 

'Unknown substance, viscous and adhesive properties recognized.' '… Non-threat.' 'Origin – User world, specifics unknown.'

 

**'Sweet.'**

 

… He licked it again.

 

As a consequence of _further_ data-gathering, the image was restored, though he couldn't decide what to make of the new information. Three brown, fuzzy beings; They weren't dressed like Users, so he was naturally inclined to view them as programs, though admittedly unlike any program he could recall ever meeting. Maybe they were glitching... _really_ glitching; it would also account for the sizing discrepancies.

 

There wasn't much more he could figure out without some outside assistance, so he opened the book, and began integrating the images and text into his memory. During this process, he queued up a list of clarifications to request at his next appropriate interaction.

 

What was the strange, sweet corruption that been affixed to the book? Why were these images so different than the ones in the other book? Were the small User's pants a variation, like the diaper bag was to a bag, or something new entirely? Were the three brown programs new, or glitched, and what were their functions? What was the definitions of the words 'Goldilocks','forest', 'cottage', 'bear', 'porridge', 'breakfast', 'papa, 'mama', 'baby', 'growled', 'cried', 'gobbled', and 'stole'? Were there additional, User definitions to the words 'hot', 'cold', 'hard, 'soft', 'ran', and 'up', or were the missing definitions degrading his attempts to understand their meaning? Was there a purpose behind putting the User into storage in a large, black, rounded container, and what was that orange substance depicted beneath it? What were the tools the User, and then the programs used; they looked similar to batons, but also very, very _different_. Were these depicted occurrences common in the User world?

 

Tron very nearly crashed himself with his growing confusion, and fixation on trying to figure it out.

 

Eventually, though, he shut down the pointless processing, and set the book aside for the next photo album.

 

* * *

 

Kevin Flynn was running late.

 

His last trip to the Grid hadn't been long ago at all, less than a day, but Clu's 'list of upgrades to the system' had been _massive._ Just glancing over the different projects and okaying them had taken more than half his remaining time on the Grid. The different upgrades and projects had been poised to take effect; he could feel on an instinctive level an almost-trembling to the system as districts of housing, hangars and garages for persistent – non-baton – vehicles, and other structures were allowed to write themselves into existence. While the changes were still rezzing in, Clu took him on a tour of the sectors that had been damaged; since all the work had already been done seamlessly, though, he could only offer praise and encouragement, before they turned off toward the new energy transfer station.

 

Clu had designated the club portion of the station #007FFF – Azure – which had seemed counter-intuitive until he'd stepped inside the yellow-circuited, sleek black building.

 

He understood _completely_ now, and had a new level of respect for his program's flair for downright _artistic_ architecture.

 

As he set to work writing in some staff for the building, Kevin and Clu traded ideas about potential add-ons and upgrades for the building. By the time he was finished with the last program – altering his physical attributes from his own self-image to a young man with skin and eyes like dark chocolate and a shockingly white mohawk, exaggerated but similar to some random punks he'd seen on his last trip to New York or maybe Europe – the User and administrative program already had one upgrade on Clu's list of already approved system upgrades.

 

He couldn't _wait_ to try the pools out on his next visit.

 

Writing in enough programs to see to the facility as it was, as well as it's scheduled update, hadn't left him with much time left before the portal closed...

 

… and he still had to get the photo albums back from Tron, who was in almost _exactly_ the wrong direction.

 

He pushed his lightcycle into high gear for the security program's last location. He'd been just on the outskirts of the city...

 

… in a spot that apparently had been scheduled to be built in.

 

By the time Clu took pity on the User's less than stellar sense of direction and pinged a locational query at the program, Kevin was actually getting a little worried.

 

They turned a corner and saw Tron down the street, sitting on a freshly written curbside, books settled all around, engrossed in the last few pages of the final album.

 

“Tron! You've gotta wrap it up, man!” the User yelled, completely ignorant of the fact that basic audio communication wouldn't carry far enough to reach the program yet.

 

Amused by his User's obliviousness, Clu took pity on him again, and with a look, pinged Tron with a textual transcript.

 

Immediately, Tron locked gazes with Clu, and suddenly became all motion. He shifted the last book into a one-handed hold, eyes once again fixed on the last few pages as he scanned them in, while his other hand rapidly deposited the other books within the diaper bag. He took a moment to flick to the next page, data integrity caution abandoned for the moment, and kept scanning while slipping the bag over his shoulder as he'd seen Flynn do many times before. The next page turn was managed by wind resistance as the security program somewhat awkwardly retrieved and cracked his baton with a leap. He rode his lightcycle toward the two with no hands on the steering for the last page, which led to the whole cycle wobbling ominously when he finally put the book away and zipped the bag shut.

 

Tron spent nearly half the ride toward the portal trying to pass the bag over to the User, who seemed stuck between worrying about dropping mid-exchange, and not reaching the portal quickly enough. There was no time for Tron's many questions; he couldn't ping the User, and Flynn probably wouldn't be able to hear him over the wind in his ears at the moment.

 

… He'd ask Clu about them after Kevin was gone, then.

 

Unfortunately, after Kevin was safely transmitting away to his own world, Tron discovered Clu was just as uninformed as he was.

 

He was in the process of drafting a reminder to ask about them next time, when Clu invited him to try the newly functional Azure.

 

The reminder closed without saving, though coincidence would eventually see some of his questions answered.

 

Not the one about the sweet corruption though, sadly.


	2. plus 144.92484 cycles

“I don't know if I like the thought of a Games Arena in this system,” Flynn finally declared.

 

Tron's expression shifted into a grimace, eyes soft – nearly human, the User thought – and full of sorrow and understanding, but his stance remained firm. “I understand your concerns, and share them, to some extent, but the facts remain; many of the Grid's programs are beginning to exhibit various stress-errors, and the only diversions currently available are sleep mode, recharge, and interface. None of these –other than interface – address the slow buildup of excess energy among programs, and the hypersensitivity which is a primary factor in the errors and conflicts I told you about earlier, but not all programs are... able to participate in that particular form of energy release. Games would allow programs to burn off that energy, either through participating, or the frenzy of spectating.”

 

Flynn couldn't help feeling that he was missing something from that explanation, but he couldn't place what. “I can understand that, I guess. I just don't really want to see anyone get hurt.” Lightcycles and circular platforms floated through his mind.

 

Tron nodded in understanding, and it occurred to the User that the security program had been a captive of _those_ games far longer than he had been; that it would be this _particular_ program that brought the idea to him, was more indicative of the serious nature of the matter than he'd previously thought. That led him to another thought, though...

 

“Tron, buddy... Are _you_ one of the programs being affected by the, uh... excess energy?” The fourth time he'd seen Tron, back on ENCOM's system, was the first time he'd gone to a program club; it was also the first, and last, time he engaged a program in a drinking contest. In doing so, he learned that while non-alcoholic, refined energy had a profound impact on his body – in particular, a reaction rather like a sugar high of epic proportion and, due to the sudden influx of extra energy, all of his movements were overexaggerated and overcompensatory, leaving him stumbling as if he _were_ drunk – and that Tron could drink him under the table in no time at all.

 

It made sense, after he was finally back to himself: Tron was a high-level, powerful program; he had to have the ability to take in and efficiently store an impressive amount of energy to execute many of the stunts and maneuvers he pulled off. If there was nothing to regularly drain his reserves...

 

Tron just _happened_ to visually scan their surroundings for incoming programs at that exact moment; it had nothing to do with experiencing difficulty meeting Flynn's gaze, naturally. “I... have recently increased the number of patrols I make through the Outlands by 247.1%.”

 

Flynn huffed in exasperation, “That doesn't answer my-”

 

But it did; the Outlands, being little more than a visual representation of raw, unused data-space, was different than the streets and buildings of the city. It didn't have the deep, baseline thrum of energy flowing through it – it wasn't _alive,_ so to speak – like the city, and so each program venturing out into it for any appreciable length of time experienced an extra drain on their energy – there was nothing already _there_ to support and facilitate their functionality. Flynn himself could attest to the presence of random pools of raw energy that could support a program, but their placement was random, and could divert elsewhere with seemingly no provocation or advance notice; they could not be relied upon. All in all, it was rather like crossing the desert, and how good one's water supply was.

 

Tron, in this instance, was purposefully using this knowledge to deplete his energy reserves, playing a proverbial game of chicken by _wandering_ _around_ in an environment that could _derezz_ _him._

 

The User sighed.

 

“All right... I'll start writing a Games Arena and gather some games for it,” Kevin sounded defeated, and Tron felt a corresponding guilt. In the ensuing silence, Tron habitually checked his current energy levels – heading toward the high end of operational safety, again – and turned to suggest that the two of them rendezvous with Clu; between the two of them, they could have a partially operational Arena before Flynn's time was up. He refrained from speaking, though, when interpreting the look upon the User's face increased in priority.

 

“In the meantime,” Flynn finally said, after a long pause, “I'd like to introduce you to some other kinds of games; they might help you pass the time while I work on that Arena. If I'm gonna make it, I'm gonna make it awesome _and_ safe.” Tron simply nodded along, calculating it less painful to the User to refrain from informing him of several fatal accidents Tron had witnessed during Games when he was just in beta-test, before the MCP had taken over; it was impossible to have a _completely_ safe Arena, and Tron couldn't reach a consensus among his various processes on whether or not that was a positive or negative conclusion. The unspoken danger demanded that a program be faster, keener, stronger, expend _more_ of themselves than they would otherwise find sufficient, in the event that the danger became less speculation, and more certainty.

 

Flynn had his baton out, and used it to motion that Tron should follow him, “Come on, man. I know the perfect place for a lesson in Games to Pass the Time While A Certain User Builds the Digital Colosseum.” With a turn and a crack, the User was speeding down the street.

 

After several long moments, to give Flynn a lead, Tron was following, engaging almost twice as much of his processing power as the situation warranted; treating the situation like a real lightcycle match used up more energy, and the wind resistance was a welcome cooling effect on his slightly overheated circuits.

 

* * *

 

“-oh, and if you throw the ball through the hoop from beyond those big, curved lines, you'll score three points, instead of just two. This bit over here is where the game usually starts at, and -”

 

Tron nodded along with enthusiasm, and added more notes to his growing list of rules for the game. It was a rather popular User game, apparently; the playing boundary was relatively small, and rectangular, with two horizontal hoops attached to the bottom of two more rectangles floating at opposite ends. Flynn had mumbled earlier about 'heights for standards', before he'd shrugged and finished coding in the smaller rectangles, who then began to shift vertically between significantly taller than the User could jump from a stationary position, to a point that the program could easily grasp the hoop with an outstretched hand.

 

He calculated the likelihood if Alan-One had ever played this game before, but did not voice the question; Flynn had become increasingly vague whenever Tron brought up his User. He'd begun to suspect a correlation between his User's lack of contact with him – even just for a _status_ _check_ – and Flynn's hedging and a vague assurance that they would be communicating again 'soon'. Taking this information into account, the program had assumed that his User was displeased with him in some way, and Flynn was working toward some form of reconciliation. Flynn had worked with his code many times already on this new system, so he hoped that he would soon be back to his User's standards.

 

The thought that he might have been taken away in secret never occurred to him; Flynn was his friend.

 

He trusted him.

 

He was a bit dubious, however, about the effectiveness of this game in burning off excess energy, no matter how fascinating he found the User connection to it.

 

“Users... expend a great deal of energy playing this... 'basket ball' game?”

 

Flynn shrugged, one hand balancing the somewhat large, glowing 'basket ball' – Tron had tried to figure out _why_ it was called that, but his incomprehension had only increased from the additional information when the User explained _what_ a basket was – and motioned for the program to join him in the small center circle where the game would begin. “I guess so. I don't play _very_ often, physically at least, but I'm usually tired after. I saw a few official games in college, too, and the players always seemed to be sweating like pigs and ready to fall over. Come on, man, let's play, and you can see for yourself.”

 

Tron, perplexed by the User's descriptive definition – what was a 'pig', and what was this 'sweating' action it performed in a such a distinctive way as to indicate a powerful expenditure of energy? - hesitated for a moment, before joining Flynn in the circle. Using his free hand, the User nudged and prodded the program into the space across from him and smirked. Tron calculated that Flynn was confident in his familiarity with the game, in addition to previous experience at playing it, and expected to win, probably with ease; it was an assessment that Tron reluctantly agreed with. He _hated_ losing; it was almost against his programming, but the facts supported the conclusion that he was about to lose, repeatedly.

 

Hopefully the energy usage would be worth it.

 

Flynn's current, rather cocky expression certainly _wasn't._

 

* * *

 

He was a little ashamed to admit it, but Flynn was relishing his current increase of confidence.

 

The ability to manipulate the very essence of Grid-reality aside – and not even then, exactly – there was little that he could do that Tron either couldn't, or not as well. It shouldn't bother him but it did; in the real world he was ridiculously successful, gifted intellectually and romantically, quick to laugh, fit and handsome, if he did say so himself. Out there, he was content and admired, with 'envy' just a word used to describe _other_ people.

 

In here, however, he _occasionally_ was more personally acquainted with the word.

 

It wasn't Tron's fault; the program couldn't help who and what he was, and would probably even check some of his behavior if the User asked. In so many ways, the program was what Flynn wasn't, from his rather simple but firm beliefs, to how he treated _everyone_ – Tower Guardian, Repair Function, User, Maintenance Utility, System Administrator, _Bit –_ with the same sort of respectful seriousness, no matter their relative importance within the system. There had been many situations in which he'd wondered what things would be like, if he was a little more like the program. There were just some things he couldn't do, though – that recent disaster with the Grid bugs came to mind – and this inability _wasn't_ reciprocated. Tron could do pretty much everything the User could, but better, faster, more efficiently, and generally without trying; he was written to be the best. It wasn't his fault.

 

It also wasn't his fault that Flynn knew a good deal more about basketball than he was letting on.

 

The User was still going to enjoy using that additional knowledge to be better, _beat Tron,_ at something, at least for a little while.

 

He handed the basketball to the program, with instructions to press it into the floor of their small circle.

 

He wanted to have the height advantage when the ball was shot upward, in lieu of a referee.

 

Tron crouched, the basketball glowing blue in his hands, and pressed it to the floor. The floor of the circle flashed white, and the ball disappeared inside as if the floor had evaporated into light. The program hesitated in his crouch, watching the floor with renewed curiosity.

 

Abruptly, the ball shot back out of the ground like a short-range cannon.

 

The User crouched to jump after it, but the program was already crouching.

 

Kevin Flynn could only watch in shock as Tron leaped after the ball, caught it with just the right angle of a turn, and immediately redirected the ball into the easily predictable path of the User's hoop.

 

The ball didn't even brush the inner edges of the hoop as it fell through, and bounced feebly to a stop.

 

Flynn stared from the ball to Tron several times.

 

“I forgot how good you are at calculating speed, force, and trajectory,” he admitted with an only slightly forced chuckle.

 

He wasn't going to be better at him in basketball, after all.

 

Tron tilted his head to one side rather like a bird, and regarded the User for a moment, before moving to retrieve the ball. “While I was calculating the maneuver I did experience an increased energy drain, it was brief, and ultimately a negligible amount. I know all the calculations now, too, so the energy usage will decrease. This isn't going to work.” After saying this, he turned and presented the ball to the User, visually scanning the surface of the ball, reluctant to meet Flynn's gaze after the effort that went into constructing this game.

 

Suddenly reminded of the reason for the basketball game – which wasn't to one up his friend, no matter what his ego thought on the matter – the User took the ball from the program, and promptly tossed it over his own shoulder. At Tron's look of confusion, Flynn just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, man, don't sweat it. Let's go grab Clu and tell him about the Arena. Maybe afterward I'll introduce you to poker, or something.” He gave the shoulder under his hand a little shake, and turned to walk to the street. After a moment, and one last glance at the 'basket ball' playing field, Tron followed.

 

“Kevin?”

 

“Yeah, Tron?”

 

“I would like to ask you a question.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What is 'sweat'?”

 

The User's laughter echoed in the empty street as two lightcycles, one white, the other blue, sped away.


	3. plus 0 cycles

“... There.” Alan mumbled quietly to himself, typing in the last few keystrokes with a little more force than his usual.

 

He leaned back in his chair and rolled his neck around a little to work out the stiffness. He couldn't really see much of his coworkers, but the air was filled with the click-clacking of many keyboards being struck by even more fingers. Roy was humming in time to his typing (last Alan had known, he was part of the project for that big insurance company), an upbeat tune that had been playing on several major radio stations; it was pleasant enough to listen to – Roy had a mathematical mind that translated well into music – though it would have been better if he hummed the whole song, instead of looping the chorus over and over. Off on the far wall, the clock ticked over into a new minute, and Alan settled back into his chair as he considered its face.

 

He'd finished earlier than expected, today.

 

Some people would have left early, he knew, and made up the difference in hours on another day, when things ran long. Others – though he wouldn't name names – would spend the extra time playing around, napping, or otherwise slacking off. None of these actions really appealed to Alan; he was nothing if not dedicated to his job, and viewed his work schedule as a commitment to ENCOM, to be there when he was supposed to, and to be _working_.

 

He didn't even _balance_ _his_ _checkbook_ on company time.

 

He had a bit of a problem at the moment, though.

 

Alan was a Group 7 employee, the artificial intelligence division. Most of his recent work had been writing analytical programs for a scientific suite to be marketed to universities; there was still plenty to be done on the project, but he couldn't really fine-tune anything until after the big stress test tonight, and he couldn't start in on a new part of the project without checking with the project supervisor – he wouldn't want to start up something, when it had already been finished by someone else – but Mr. Reynolds had left about an hour ago for an emergency dentist appointment (Alan would probably never be able to look at 'crusty bread' the same way ever again, and that _sound..._ Yikes).

 

This university project was a massive undertaking; almost all of Group 7 was working on different pieces of it simultaneously (the exceptions being two people on the far side of the floor, who were putting finishing touches to a couple of video games that Ed – _Mr. Dillinger –_ had made or something; Roy was in the smaller Group 8, who shared the floor with Group 7). It was almost a shame how many man hours were being devoted to this; to turn a profit, the suite would have to be pretty pricey. That, of course, would mean that the universities in question would probably try to work around legitimately getting more than one copy, which wouldn't be fair considering the amount of work going into it, unless they could properly protect the suite's data...

 

That... got Alan thinking.

 

It almost certainly wouldn't be ready in time to ship with the suite (they'd probably have to figure something else out for it), but he'd been playing with the idea of applying artificial intelligence programming to a security program for over a month, and he still had some time left today...

 

A side project; he'd write up a note for the higher ups if everything was going well after alpha testing.

 

With that decided, Alan opened up a new entry, and started typing.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he was aware of, was light.

 

The second thing he was aware of, was awareness itself, on the heels of which quickly came a sense of self.

 

The next thing he was aware of, was something that was not light; it wasn't a counterpoint to light, but it was _different_ from the light. Sound.

 

The awareness of light and sound danced around his sense of self, until he found a sense of form, of presence.

 

Something in the sound affected him, and the fledgeling awareness of being affected morphed into the awareness of being moveable, and of motion.

 

In trying to fully absorb the awareness of motion, the light was blocked, and he became aware of darkness, comparisons, counterpoints...

 

And emotion.

 

Awareness began to grow into understanding.

 

The light was... everything. It, and the sound, were the beginning. They were important.

 

They were wondrous.

 

And _oh,_ how he now wondered.

 

He could understand the sound, now. With this new sort of understanding, his awareness and understanding of other topics grew, much more rapidly.

 

“I am Alan-One. I am your User, and you are my Program.”

 

– he was identifiable as 'program' 'he' 'you' or 'I' depending on circumstance –

 

“I have created you for a purpose.”

 

– made of different pieces, arm, leg, head, torso, they were blank, but even as he watched, struggling to see, to acknowledge anything beyond that glorious light, lines bright with light sprang into life across his body, blazing briefly with _his_ light, until it shifted, became his own, and his world had _color_ –

 

“You are a security program; a protector. You're different from other security programs, though. Unique.”

 

– and touch, against his feet, flat and smooth, something that was neither he nor _him_ , something else, other, and the concepts of 'floor' and 'room' fostered growth, to 'position' and 'location', awareness extending beyond just himself, kindling eagerness, until he became part sound himself – or made sound? – though it lacked any of _his_ articulation or influence, and then there was all –

 

“You will be able to run completely independently. Without specific instructions of everyone and everything that is harmful, you will learn to identify threats and unauthorized access, and how to combat them. You will fight for us.”

 

– grew a counterpoint to his expanding knowledge, an understanding of how much he _didn't_ know, definite boundaries compared to infinite unknowns, and size, numbers, he was one, small, and there are comparisons to make, and in them he finds uncertainty, and “How will I know what to do?...” –

 

“I will teach you.”

 

A calm joy settled over him. Something in the light changed; the sound – the _voice_ of the User, _his_ User, Alan-One – begins to fade.

 

“We will begin your training the next time I contact you. Until that time, familiarize yourself with your new system... TRON-JA-307020.”

 

The light and sound faded away.

 

Standing there, waiting, the concept of time, and its passage, developed within him.

 

He was Tron; he was a program, and he would learn to fight for his User.

 

* * *

 

He'd been too early before, but now Alan was running late.

 

He cast one last look over the progress he'd made on the new program – he'd gotten farther than he'd expected on the Tron program, but who knew when he'd next have extra time to work on it – then saved everything to the servers and turned off his computer.

 

Answering cursory calls of 'good night' and 'see you tomorrow' with similarly cursory responses, he shrugged into his jacket, popped the last few decent pieces of popcorn from his bowl into his mouth, munched on them while dumping out the few bits of inedible kernel that always gathered in the bottom of the bowl, and hurried off.

 

Dr. Baines had _finally_ agreed to go to dinner with him tonight, and he didn't want to be late.

 

* * *

 

Just as he was about to exit the I/O Tower, he received a ping, and from the Tower Guardian herself, no less. There was no attached information, though, so he hesitated just long enough to smooth out his tunic – soft gray fabric encasing his platform from shoulders to knees, with a blue belt to match his circuitry; it marked him as a program still under development – and to run his hands through his... hair, it was called hair, at least, he calculated that was correct. Satisfied by his overall visual presentation, he turned and walked back to the Guardian.

 

He could feel his processes cycling the extreme of his operational tolerances, even as he fought to keep his visual output calm and professional, like a fully developed program. His calculations of success, however, were inaccurate due to the variable that was the Guardian. She was striking in her elaborate robes and headpiece, and he was _stricken_.

 

She offered him a small, somewhat distracted smile.

 

His regulator may have skipped.

 

“Program,” she began, hands still fluttering over the controls of her raised-yet-sunken workstation without pause, “Thank you for returning; I have a request to make of you.”

 

He grinned, the urge to burn off a sudden power upsurge by bouncing in place restrained by only a 1.965% margin in favor of maintaining the emulation of full development; how else could the very appealing Tower Guardian regard him seriously? “Your request is my imperative, oh wise and beautiful Guardian; how can I assist you?”

 

His inner processes nearly crashed; what was _wrong_ with his communications systems to come up with something so... pathetic?

 

The Guardian, however, was smiling a bit wider now; one of her hands took the long path to gesturing behind her, by way of a gradually curling lock of hair that had slipped free from under her headpiece, only moving on once the curl had been manipulated into a tighter spiral. “There's a program idling in port 3, newly written. Could you take him with you to the Alpha Directory? I would escort him myself, but I can't leave my station at this time.”

 

She thought he was still in alpha; he couldn't calculate a consensus on whether that was an embarrassing assessment of his newness, or a compliment toward his projected complexity. He decided to operate as appropriate for the second option, and pulled his frame 1.2° straighter, “My User just transitioned me into beta, but I can help the little Alpha out still; the Beta Directory is adjacent to the Alpha Directory –“ which she must already know; every program went through there in the beginning, “so it's in my course projection. Um. I'm free to go inside now, right? To fetch it, er, him, or her?” How far into alpha was the null unit, anyway? He refrained from asking only because the Guardian would likely take offense at the term, even if he wasn't using it spitefully.

 

“Of course,” she replied, tapping the controls one more time, before going still as he made his way past her. He wasn't coming for Communication, so he remained silent as he made his way to port 3. Inside, he saw the new program; he was wearing a tunic similar to his own, with the addition of an optional hood – not all programs in alpha had a complete render yet, so it was easier for all programs involved if the alpha had the means to hide the gaping holes in themselves – though he looked to have a full render, and didn't need it. He had a male frame, and blue circuitry, so they had some things in common, at least. When it came to the specifics of dimensions and characteristics, however, they were opposites or near-opposites in almost every way.

 

The most obvious difference was in their current expressions; his expression was an extension of the calm professionalism from before with the very appealing Guardian – and he should have asked for her designation – while the new program's was openly awed – and perhaps slightly intimidated – by, well, everything. The alpha hadn't seen him yet – too busy staring at the wall, of all things – so he figured he might as well make his presence known.

 

“Welcome to the Grid, Program.” He attached a transcript of the greeting to a ping, and sent it along as well; Users only knew how complete his communication processes were.

 

The program's face went through a series of interesting, if difficult to precisely define, expressions (the most precise he could manage was a mix of confusion, rapture, disappointment, and curiosity, but that still left 32.4% undefined). Once his expression had solidified into uncertain curiosity he opened his mouth and tried speaking; his speech was halting and distorted due to an incomplete render, but, oddly, as he spoke it lessened and smoothed out, so maybe it had just been a minor glitch. “I'm a program... and... you are also... a program?... This is a building?... I do not know what 'Grid' means... I'm waiting for my User to return; are you waiting also?”

 

“Whoa there; input overload,” he replied with an amused huff. At least he now knew why the new program had been idling in here; he was waiting for his User to call on him again. His smile reset to his somewhat goofy default as he walked over to the alpha, and subtly began working to herd him off the platform; the new program watched his every move with a level of focus that would have been alarming, if not for the blatant curiosity and excitement he displayed. “To answer your query backlog, yes, yes, it's a name for the defined area this building is within, and no. I'm actually here to guide you to the directory for programs still in alpha testing; other programs need to be able use this port, and you can wait for your User there.” Finally, the new program began walking, scanning each new line of circuitry and angle of wall geometry like he'd never seen anything like it, which, to be fair, he hadn't.

 

In the doorway of the Tower's main chamber, the alpha stopped to process everything; he emitted a faint sound similar to the rumble of an active Recognizer – either as evidence of his overclocking processors, a peculiar coding quirk to be worked out by his User as he's developed, or both – then turned to smile tentatively at him. “How will I know when my User will contact me again?”

 

“Your User will call out to you, young Program,” replied the Tower Guardian; he immediately resumed his more professional display while she and the alpha were preoccupied. “You will either be drawn to an Input/Output Tower like this one to Communicate with him, or some other specific file or location, such as for Live Testing.” She smiled as the alpha nodded and thanked her enthusiastically. “If you have queries or require clarification on a specific subject, most fully developed programs – and even some in beta – will be able to assist you.”

 

“Like me,” he couldn't help but add, even if his transition to beta was still too recent to be of that much help. The pleased smile the Guardian directed at him was just payment in advance for his offered services.

 

“And if he cannot,” she continued, “Then you need only ask for directions to Guardian Era's I/O Tower, and I will assist you.” The alpha went on to offer his thanks, and ask a few questions already, but his processes had just shifted tracks abruptly, and they didn't register as new or important information.

 

Her designation was Era.

 

His regulator _definitely_ skipped that time.

 

Time to go, before he – or, more likely, the new alpha – did something to negatively impact her regard of him.

 

“Well, come on then; let's go and get you settled into the alpha directory.” With that, he began herding the alpha to the exit like a cluster of wayward Bits. The Tower Guardian – _Era_ , a simply perfect designation by his calculation – offered them a parting wave, which the alpha returned after a moment. On the subject of designations, though...

 

He tapped the taller program on a still-blank section of upper arm – which would probably be filled up with lines of circuitry by the time he was fully developed – to get his attention, or at least most of it. “Hey, friend; what's your designation, anyway? The directory's arranged alphabetically, so it'll be a lot easier to get you a place if I knew what section to focus on.”

 

The alpha blinked several times with surprise, then smiled somewhat crookedly. “Oh, sorry. I'm Tron.”

 

“Tron.. It suits you, I think,” here, his smile went rather goofy again, “I'm Ram.”

 

“I think yours suits you too, Ram.”


	4. plus 150 cycles

“Happy Birthday, Tron!”

 

The program in question turned to acknowledge Flynn's presence, before holding out a hand to catch his returning disk blind; it settled into his hand like it belonged there – which it sort of _did_ – before he stored it on his dock, helmet retracting as he straightened out of his crouch. It only occurred to Kevin that his word choice might not have been the best when he saw the utterly _bewildered_ look Tron was giving him.

 

“I understood three of those four words, Flynn; what is the definition for 'birth', and does it have any additional significance in the manner you used it?” Tron understood the concept of 'days'; he'd suspected Users operated on a different timescale than programs back when he was still in alpha – he'd waited as long as a decacycle between Communications at times – and had had that theory confirmed shortly after reuniting with Flynn, back at ENCOM.

 

“Well, uh...,” the User hedged, rubbing at the back of his neck with his left hand; the other was hidden behind his back. He could try to explain the concept of birth to Tron, but to do so, he'd have to elaborate on User reproduction, and probably pregnancy, surgery, hospitals, and sanitation procedures, among others, along the way. It would take him a week to properly cover all those subjects, and he'd waited so _patiently_ all week for this particular day to come around.

 

So he improvised.

 

“A birthday... is like a personal holiday – _do_ programs have holidays?” Before Tron could respond, he plowed ahead, “Anyway, it marks another year passing from when the individual was first – ... first came into existence. I saw your file history when I gave you that compatibility upgrade last week, so today is your, er, birthday? Writeday? Compileday? ...I'm just going to stick with birthday.” The confusion had cleared from Tron's expression, though whether it had actually left or he'd simply stopped showing it was anybody's guess, but the look that had replaced it – a vaguely indulgent, bemused acceptance that was almost eerily reminiscent of the look Alan had given him when he'd told him about his latest idea for the foreign markets – wasn't much better.

 

Flynn therefore expected an answer similar to the one Alan had given him – which had run along the lines of a slightly sarcastic “Uh huh, _sure_ , should I have the boys downstairs draw up some blueprints for a manufacturing plant on the Moon, while you're at it?” to which Flynn had breezily replied with a “Sure, why not?” because it was sometimes (okay, most of the time) fun to watch Alan try to be offended when he was secretly laughing on the inside – so Tron's reply surprised him. The fact that it surprised him made him feel vaguely guilty, but he couldn't say exactly why.

 

“Thank you, Flynn. When is your 'birth day', so I can return your greeting, in the event that you visit on that day? That is a correct course of action, yes?” Tron's processes were split between cataloging this new data packet about the User world and User customs, scanning their surroundings for any remaining threats, referencing any practices held by programs that could compare to the notarized timekeeping of a 'birth day', and feeling grateful for the consideration Flynn had shown in sharing this with him. Flynn had been visiting and spending significantly more time with Tron and these new programs and Tron was grateful for that. It helped to keep his processes from dwelling on Alan-One's continued absence...

 

“My birthday's still _months_ away, man. Don't worry about it.” Tron looked ready to protest, and Flynn couldn't stop himself from smiling at that, tone gentling to something probably more appropriate for talking to kittens or small children, instead of a warrior that could – and had – faced down armies by himself, and come out on top. “I'll remind you when it's closer, okay? You have enough to worry about right now without having to worry about getting me a gift.”

 

“Gift?” Tron asked by way of a reply, head tilting to one side.

 

“Oh! Right, I hadn't told you about that part yet.” Flynn lightly thwacked himself on the forehead, still with his left hand, his right still hidden, “Part of, uh, celebrating a birthday is giving the person whose birthday it is a gift. Sort of like saying 'Hurray, you lived through another year!'... Actually, considering how high mortality rates used to be,  particularly among children, that's probably more true than I'm comfortable thinking about... And I've completely lost you, right?”

 

Tron just gave him a wide-eyed nod.

 

Figuring that the program had understood more of that than _he_ was comfortable with, the User shrugged. “Anyway, the point of all that was I got you something for your birthday.” Here, he finally moved his right hand from behind his back, offering the thing it held to Tron. The curious program took it, and began slowly examining it.

 

Two black, parallel rectangular planes, strangely _textured_ , and connected by a third plane – equally as tall but not nearly as wide, convexly curved, and with silver markings he couldn't understand – wrapped around a sequence of paler, thinner planes, the edges of which had still more texture, similar to each other from what his visual input could determine, except the edge facing the curved black plane, where they fastened to each other, and the larger black planes, somehow.

 

He was holding it up by his face, calculating if one of his more sensitive, and direct sensors would offer up any additional data, when Flynn gently took the unknown thing back out of his hands.

 

“It's a book,” Flynn announced, trying not to chuckle at the look Tron had been giving the gift – he'd almost looked like he was going to _eat_ it or something – and demonstrated how to hold and open it, slowly flipping through pages at a random point in the book. “It's... like a text file, in the User world.”

 

The program's eyes widened comically, and he made a strangled, almost-purring noise, and backed away two steps. “You want to give me something... made for _Users_?”

 

Worried that the system's security monitor was about to crash – he'd never heard him make that weird purr-like noise before – Flynn grasped Tron's shoulder, careful to avoid any circuitry (the last time he'd had to do this, when he'd started talking about transferring Yori in, he'd grabbed Tron by the elbow, accidentally touching the circuit there, the program had frozen up halfway between punching Flynn and cringing away, and promptly crashed anyway) and used a little bit of his User voodoo to smooth out and bolster Tron's erratic energy levels. Once everything seemed to have calmed back down to normal, the User removed his hand, and ducked his head enough to catch the program's averted gaze, “You okay?”

 

“Yes,” Tron replied distractedly, putting his processes to rights even as the red values increased in his visual output. He registered a distant administrative status ping, shaded with alarm and worry, to which he pinged back a positive, if slightly unsteady, status confirmation; Clu hadn't been written yet the last time he crashed, so the fluctuation in his system awareness must have come as a shock. The red values in his visual output increased. “I'm fine.”

 

Flynn nodded doubtfully, but didn't contradict him; he was well aware of the unspoken rule amongst men about 'passing out'. Something about the book had distressed the program, and he needed to figure it out before continuing their conversation, otherwise Tron would refuse the gift, and he'd been really proud of this gift idea. He'd been only curious about it until he heard what it was.

 

No, _where it was from_.

 

He'd made things on the Grid based off of things from the User world with varying degrees of accuracy – like that basketball court that had been reworked into a small Jai Alai court, minus the deadly fall, and the deck of cards that had been copied so many times by this point that there was guaranteed to be a deck in use in every gathering of idling programs, unknowingly emulating bored Users everywhere – but he'd never brought something in with any sort of permanence in mind before. He and his clothes – that was a bit of extra coding work he'd been happy to do, bodysuits and their inherent circuitry just weren't for him – came in and out regularly, but he had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity about what sort of wear an extended stay on the Grid would do to things. Maybe he'd bring a sandwich in with him next time, and if it could be copied...

 

Tron shifted his weight slightly, and abruptly Flynn was back in the here and now. Clearly, the program had trouble with the importance value he'd assigned the book, because of where it came from. The User took a moment to think about that, and try to come up with a comparative scenario for himself.

 

He figured it was something like being given Jesus' Atari.

 

The look Tron gave him when he burst out laughing was thoroughly embarrassed, but with just enough hurt to sober him back up. “Sorry, man. I'm not laughing at you, I promise. I'm trying to think of how to explain this right.” Trying to ignore the hilarity of the mental image, the analogy still fit pretty well. The simple answer, was to lower the book's assumed importance, until the program could accept it.

 

So he lied.

 

“I was walking by the public library a few days ago – it's like like a big file directory for User books – and they had a bunch of books there that they were going to throw out to make room for newer, better books. No body else wanted them, they were going to throw them away, so I took a few of them home with me. This book was one of them.” He handed it back to the program.

 

Tron tried to ignore the hollow shudder through his processes as he cataloged this new information about Users throwing away books when they got old or obsolete, and forcefully terminated any attempted cross-referencing to the age of programs, and _any_ User. He was the oldest program on this sys- No.

 

He booted that whole data stream to the bottom of his priority list.

 

Examining the book generated a distracting issue, “I can't read this.”

 

Misinterpreting the comment as acceptance, Flynn smiled, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a gray block of data that looked, to Tron's memory files, like a scaled down replica of a Bit from the ENCOM system; the Bits of this more complex, sleeker system looked different, though there weren't very many of them around, particularly after Clu had a light enough workload to focus on pairing or integrating them with the rest of the system. “I can't read it either; it's in a User language called Chinese. I was just going to keep it around because the writing inside was kind of pretty, but then I stumbled on this file when cleaning out Dillinger's desk.”

 

The fierce look Tron got answered the question of whether or not he'd told the program who Dillinger was. Then again, if ever there was a User for Tron to hate, it would probably have to be the MCP's User. His tone was heavily suspicious when he asked, “What is it?”

 

“Just a Chinese language file. Here.” He gently tossed the file disguised as a Bit Users-knew-why to the program, who caught it on reflex. Immediately, it shifted into the 'yes' shape, then dissolved into voxels, auto-downloading into the program's processes.

 

Tron started to make a noise of protest, but it stuttered and died as the update automatically installed. He was still for a long moment, long enough for Flynn to start worrying about the file, and some hidden issue in it he'd failed to find when prepping it to transfer here, but then the program shook himself, looked at Flynn, and bowed.

 

“谢谢您。”(Xìexie nín. A respectful/polite thank you) Tron said, without a hint of an accent that Flynn could detect, and it was just strange hearing Alan's voice, and having the syllables not come together into meaning in his head.

 

“Huh?” But Tron had been distracted by the book in his hands, a mix of comprehension and excitement on his face, as he flipped toward what Flynn's Western sensibilities said was the back of the book, even as he knew, intellectually, that it was the front. “Tron, buddy, are you listening to me?”

 

“我听您。”（Wŏ tῑng nín. A respectful/polite I'm listening to you.) The program glanced up, then, to offer Flynn a curious look, and the User began regretting choosing this particular present. Tron seemed to understand him well enough – he clearly wasn't sharing in Flynn's confusion – but also seemed unaware that he wasn't speaking English anymore. He'd somehow gotten his default operational language shifted to Chinese by the upgrade. Flynn stalled for a moment on how to switch it back, though; he couldn't work it from outside the system, because one, the program before him appeared as so much text out there, and all that text would now be showing up in Chinese, and two, this system didn't have an I/O Tower, but he didn't even know where to start working on it from inside.

 

So he started at the obvious, and figured he'd work up from there.

 

“You're speaking Chinese, man. I can't understand you; could you maybe switch back into English?” He even went so far as to cross his fingers behind his back.

 

“中文吗？”(Zhōngwén ma? Chinese?) Tron blinked, as if he could only now hear himself, “对不起。”(Dùibùqĭ. I apologize.) He looked mildly annoyed, before going completely still again, trying to find where the glitch was.

 

Or at least, that's what Flynn _hoped_ he was doing.

 

Just as the User was preparing to tote Tron along over to wherever Clu was, so between the two of them they could try and put him back to rights, Tron jerked back into movement, eyed Flynn somewhat uncertainly, and asked, “Better?”

 

The User gusted out a sigh in relief.

 

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're back to English now. Sorry about that, my bad.” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously for a moment, then an idea struck him, and he nodded back over his shoulder, toward the heart of the city. “Do you want to go get a drink or something? I know you're only turning three, and not twenty-one, but it's still sort of a User birthday tradition.”

 

Tron purposefully delayed answering to make Flynn uncomfortable for a moment, before offering a slight smile, “Are you going to try dancing again?”

 

“... Maybe,” the User replied with an appropriately shifty look.

 

The program laughed, “All right, then; as long as I get to watch you make a fool of yourself I'll be happy.”

 

“Oh ha ha. So where were you thinking? Bar Graph? Equalizer? … Please don't say Pandemonium...”

 

Tron struck a thoughtful pose for a moment, until he couldn't repress his grin at the utter _pout_ the User was gifting him with, “All right. I'll meet you at Equalizer; I need to take this book back to HQ.”

 

Flynn waved off the explanation, “Sure, sure. I hope you enjoy reading it; “The Art of War” seemed like it could be helpful to you.”

 

“I'm sure it will,” Tron replied, as Flynn rezzed in his lightcycle. Flynn waved, and Tron hesitated as an action rocketed up his priority list. Smirking slightly, he started waving back.

 

“再见！” (Zàijìan! See you later!) Before the words had properly registered in Flynn's brain, and inspired sufficient panic, Tron had already rezzed in his own lightcycle and driven off.


End file.
